"Was there now? And how did you come by such a thing as that?"

"It is a very long story."

"Aye, and what better way to pass the time than wit' a good, long story?"

Elizabeth considered for a moment. "I don't suppose you have a toothbrush in that trunk of yours? And a hairbrush?"

"I might do," said the old lady, her fingers winding through silver chains. "Why do you ask?"

"Stories do not come cheap," said Elizabeth.

The old woman's face lit up. "Oooh," she said. "Intend to haggle wit' me, do you?"

Whatever Elizabeth might have said to Anne Stoker was interrupted by the sound of running feet on deck and a call from the crow's nest: "Ship ahoy!" She started up from her seat, but the old woman never moved.

"Not the one you're looking for," she said evenly. "Not yet."

"Do you think we'll catch the Isis up, then?" It was the most important question, and Elizabeth feared the answer so much that she had not been able to ask the men outright.

Granny Stoker laughed, the tobacco-stained fingers threading through the lifetime's plunder hung around her neck. "Have you watched children playin' at tag, me dear?"

Elizabeth nodded. "I have." Once I was a schoolteacher, she might have said. But it seemed so long ago, and she would not think of home. Not now.

"Well, then, you'll recall as how little boys like the chase, but for little girls all fun is in the getting caught. And she's no different at heart. Just a little girl running away to get caught."

"Who is no different?" asked Elizabeth, vaguely confused.

"Why," said Annie Stoker. "The Lass in Green, of course."

Though the Jackdaw was not a large ship, Mac Stoker managed to keep clear of Elizabeth. She supposed that his sudden deference had more to do with a healthy fear of the Bonner men than with some newfound consideration, but she did not mind the isolation from Stoker.

He sent her messages through his crew. It was Jacques, the boy who had lured her to the ship, who brought word that Granny Stoker was willing to have Elizabeth sleep in the captain's quarters with her. It was a kind offer, and Elizabeth was relieved to have recourse to the cabin throughout the day when she wanted privacy to see to her own needs, but she could not bear the idea of long hours without Nathaniel. Neither was she willing to share the crew's berth, as Hawkeye and Robbie were. This left only the open deck, and hammocks.

It was not the worst solution. Over the mizzenmast the stars turned in endless wheels, and Elizabeth could raise her head to look for the glimmer of sails on the horizon. It was something she did quite often, for even tightly bound the throbbing in her breasts was bad enough to keep her from a real sleep. Nathaniel was not better off; she could hear him constantly turning and shifting.

The hammocks were narrow and would never hold the both of them, but what she wanted, what she needed, was to sleep beside him, tucked into his side with his arm around her. With the sound of Nathaniel's heartbeat in her ear she might be able to find some peace for a few hours. But Elizabeth found that more than her children had been taken from her: she no longer knew how to talk to her husband. How could she speak of her own discomfort when all of this was her fault? And if she said that to him, if she put the truth out in a line of words, one after the other, what would he do? She tasted salt on her skin and could not tell if it was sea spray, or her own tears.

"Boots," he called softly.

"Yes?"

His feet thumped on the deck, and then he was leaning over her. She could not make out his expression in the dark, but she could feel the sweet warmth of him.

"If you don't get some sleep you'll fall ill."

"You're not sleeping either, Nathaniel."

"I would if I could hold you."

What help was there for her then? She collapsed slowly inward, sorrow raking through the last of her self-control. The hammock shook with her sobs so that she could hardly breathe, aware only dimly of the milk that flowed from her breasts now, finally, as she wept. And then Nathaniel simply tipped the canvas sling toward him and she slid into the cradle of his arms.

He took the full force of her misery without protest, although there was a trembling in him. With her face pressed to his neck she wept herself into a quieter, duller place, and then Nathaniel turned and walked with her to the longboat that took up the center of the main deck. He set her on her feet to throw back the canvas cover and then he climbed in, and reached down to lift her over the side.

The cover made a cave of the boat once it was pulled back over their heads. Inside it was damp and close and it smelled of mildew and spilled ale, but it was quiet out of the wind and there was a tarpaulin to serve as a makeshift mattress and blanket both. There was just enough room between two benches to lie in a half-recline, side by side. Elizabeth settled against him carefully. Her whole body felt hollow and distant, a poor quaking thing, but Nathaniel was solid and warm and immediately comforting. Last summer on the run in the endless forests they had slept like this sometimes, under an outcropping of cliff.

"A year ago," she said out loud.

"I been thinking about that too," Nathaniel said. "Solid ground under our feet and Richard Todd on our tails. And the day Joe died." His fingers traced the side of her face. "On the island, do you remember?"

Elizabeth rubbed her face on the rough linen of his shirt. "If I live to be a hundred I will remember that island."